


Rearranged

by MistyMountainHop



Category: That '70s Show
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyMountainHop/pseuds/MistyMountainHop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackie changes Hyde's physical appearance to save their relationship—only he doesn't know their relationship needs saving. Her bigger plan requires him to do things against his nature, and if he can't do them, he may lose both her and himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come Along for the Ride

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.
> 
>  **Author's Note:** Happy Halloween week, everyone! This story takes place sometime post-season 7—and in a universe where Jackie and Hyde got engaged (as it should've been). Bob's also married to Joanne. I hope you enjoy!!

CHAPTER ONE **  
COME ALONG FOR THE RIDE**

  _November 13, 1980_

_Kenosha, Wisconsin_

_Jackie and Hyde's Apartment_

**…**

A pungent, chemical scent pulled Hyde from sleep. His head was pounding, and his hand slid over Jackie's spot on their bed. It was empty, and the bottom sheet was cool to the touch. She'd been out of bed for a while.  
  
He kept his eyes shut, but his headache throbbed behind his eyelids. The chemical smell was fueling his hangover, making the symptoms worse. Was Jackie repainting their bedroom? He wouldn't have put it past her. They'd gotten wasted together last night. She'd been in a kinky mood, and though work had tired him out, he missed fooling around with her. Increased hours at Grooves meant less sex, and neither of them were happy about it.  
  
She'd brought home some quality wine from her talk show, _What's Up, Wisconsin?_ He finished off the first bottle with her, but his memories became hazy after that. He couldn't even remember if he'd gotten lucky. His hangover-headache wasn't helping. Neither was that chemical stench.  
  
“Jackie,” he said into his pillow, “stop painting.” No answer, and he turned his aching head to the side. “Jackie...” his voice was a groan, “stop.”  
  
Still no answer. What the hell was she doing? He pushed himself up and sat back against the bed's padded headboard. The bedroom's lamps were off, but morning light shone through the windows—and Jackie was gone. That explained her lack of response, but where did that pungent smell come from? She hadn't been painting. The walls were still a benign shade of Periwinkle blue.  
  
He stood up slowly. His pounding skull made searching the room painful, but something on the bed caught his eye: his pillow case. Its lavender color was streaked dark brown.  
  
“God damn it.” His stomach churned with nausea. If he'd drunk enough booze to have an accident on his pillow and then freakin' slept on it, he needed to quit drinking.  
  
He picked up his pillow and sniffed the case. To his relief, it didn't stink like shit. It smelled like that chemical. Partying with Jackie last night must've gotten freaky, but he was in no shape to theorize. A haze had infiltrated his brain. He needed a couple of aspirin.  
  
He plodded into the bathroom and flipped on the light switch. The fluorescent bulb above the sink winked to life, and his eyes closed at the brightness. They partially opened again once his back was to the bulb. _Aspirin, man._ His skull would stop hurting after he downed some aspirin.  
  
He reached for the medicine cabinet. Its mirrored door reflected the bathroom tiles and his squinting face—only it wasn't quite _his_ face. His reflection was off somehow, but his hungover mind had to be playing tricks on him. He opened the cabinet and took out the aspirin bottle. But when he re-shut the door, that strange version of himself was still in the mirror.  
  
His eyes, nose, and mouth were right, but his hair was wrong. It was matted down instead of frizzy. No longer blond but a dark brown. His sideburns were dark, too.  
  
“No way.” He ran a hand through his flattened curls, and his reflection did the same. “No _damn_ way. ” His fist clutched the aspirin bottle, and a scratchy, incredulous laugh clawed up his throat. “She wouldn't have screwed with the 'fro.”  
  
The mirror had to be reflecting wrong. Didn't have enough light. He turned toward the fluorescent bulb. It shone over a much larger mirrored cabinet, but even under direct light, his curls and sideburns were dark brown. He also had splotches of brown dye on his cheeks and neck.  
  
“Shit.” He licked his thumb and tried rubbing the dye off his cheek. No go. “Jackie … man, what the hell did you do?”  
  
The question drove more pain into his head Aspirin needed to be in him freakin' yesterday. He opened the sink's cabinet and grabbed a four-ounce glass. He filled it with water, swallowed down a pair of aspirin, but the pills threatened to come back up. His hands clenched the sink and knocked something to the floor. Didn't matter. For now, he took steady breaths, willing the aspirin to stay down.  
  
His stomach relaxed after a moment. He gave it a few extra seconds, just to be sure, then picked up what he'd dropped. It was a bottle of nail polish remover. A bag of cotton balls was resting on the sink, too, along with a note. _Jackie._ She must have left these things for him, and he picked up the note. It was written in her loopy, feminine handwriting:  
  
_Steven,_  
  
_I couldn't get all the hair dye off your face and neck. Use the nail polish remover and cotton balls to do it. And make sure to scrub. I'll be back soon.  
  
Love,  
__Your fiancée,  
Jackie.  
  
_ He stared at the note's ending salutation. She wouldn't be his fiancéemuch longer if she didn't have a good reason for what she'd done.  
  
Under the word _INGREDIENTS,_ the bottle of nail polish remover listed a bunch of chemicals. _Screw it._ He was taking a shower. That dye wasn't staying in his hair. But after three scrub-throughs with shampoo, his hair was still brown—and soap hadn't removed the dye from his cheeks or neck. What was that crap made from, nuclear waste?  
  
He didn't bother toweling himself dry. He used the nail-polish remover as instructed, and finally the brown stains lifted from his skin.  
  
“Steven?” Jackie's muffled voice came through the door, along with a knock.  
  
Hyde was naked, and he threw on his robe and tied it closed, in case Jackie wasn't alone. He had no clue what she was up to. For all he knew, she could've brought a camera crew here to film him.  
  
He opened the door slowly, steeling himself for another shock, but Jackie was by herself. “Oh, it's perfect!” she said and and reached toward his sideburns.  
  
“'It's perfect'?” He backed away from her. “If your next words don't explain my hair, we're gonna have a serious problem.”  
  
“We're driving to Las Vegas.”  
  
“Vegas?” His headache had faded, but the haze in his brain was growing thicker. “I got work. You got work—what?”  
  
“No, we don't.” She leaned against the bathroom's doorway, effectively trapping him inside. “Well, actually, I _do_ have work _,_ but going to Vegas is part of it. The camera crew will meet us there. You, on the other hand, have the next few days off. I arranged everything with your dad.”  
  
“What do you mean 'arranged'?”  
  
“Angie's coming in from Milwaukee to to fill in for you at Grooves. She, your dad, and I agree you need this.”  
  
“Need what?” He gestured for her to move away from the door, and she took that as a signal to stroll down the hallway. “Hey, don't walk away from me.” He followed her into the living room. “What the hell is going on, Jackie? Why're you talking to people behind my back and 'arranging' things?”  
  
She didn't seem to hear him. Instead, she stopped beside their couch. Spread on it was an old pair of his jeans—the widest bell bottoms he'd ever owned—and his orange dashiki shirt, something he hadn't worn since early high school. The sight of them thickened his haziness, but she waved her arm over his clothes as if they were a prize.  
  
“Tah-dah!” she said, and he scratched the back of his damp hair. He was beginning to feel as dumb as Kelso, but a smile burst on her face. “I picked these up from the Formans last week.”  
  
“Why?”  
_  
_ “You're going to be Greg Brady.”  
  
“I'm gonna...?” His body stiffened, and his neurons had to be misfiring. He'd thought the pot he smoked was destroying his brain cells, but no. It was Jackie.  
  
Greg Brady's name had no business being associated with Hyde. Hyde's life wasn't a sitcom. It didn't include a widow with three daughters or a widower with three sons. And even if did, the widow and the widower wouldn't get hitched and combine their six kids into a family. They'd get drunk, sell their kids to the highest bidder, and run off with the money.  
  
“You're going to be Greg Brady,” Jackie said again, and he cringed. “Paramount Pictures Corporation is holding a huge—and I mean _huge_ promotional event in Vegas for _The Brady Girls Get Married._ It's a TV movie that'll air early next year, and Paramount's hoping it'll launch a new _Brady Bunch_ TV series.”  
  
“So you terrorized my hair for your TV show?”  
  
“No, no. My TV show isn't affiliated with Paramount or ABC,” she combed fingers through her own hair nervously, “so I'm not breaking any rules. We're still eligible.”  
  
Hyde's breathing grew short. Her words hadn't cleared the haze but turned it into smog.. He needed to sit, and he half-collapsed into his black armchair.  
  
“Steven,” she stared at him, as if he were the one not making sense, “you agreed to this last night.”  
  
“I don't remember last night.”  
  
“It doesn't matter. You still agreed. I have it on tape.” She plucked a small tape recorder from the couch's end table. She pressed play, and his sex-voice grunted through the small speaker.  
  
He cringed again. This was not something he'd ever wanted to hear, but amid a jumble of happy groans, his recorded voice said, “Keep goin'...”  
  
“So if you let me make you up as Greg,” Jackie's recorded voice said, “we can win the thirty-thousand dollars.”  
  
“Sounds … good.”  
  
“There!” She clicked the tape recorder off. “You heard yourself. You said 'Sounds good.' That's a verbally-binding contract.”  
  
His awareness turned inward. The smog in his skull had thinned, and fuzzy memories fell through his mind like snowflakes. Jackie had been on top of him last night, naked. Her hands were planted on his chest, and she did most of the moving. “You were sober last night,” he said.  
  
“Well...” she held up a finger, “I did have one glass of that wine. But you kept going and didn't notice I'd stopped.”  
  
His mouth fell slack. “I drank most of that bottle myself?”  
  
“Yeah, and some of the second one. I took advantage of your genetics and upbringing, but I'm not sorry. I wanted to kill two birds with one stone.”  
  
_His genetics and upbringing._ His alcoholic mother and stepdad. He couldn't count how many nights he'd watched them empty bottles of booze together. Then they'd fight with each other until one of them left the house or passed out.  
  
“I didn't stop,” he said and dark clouds rolled into his chest. Fear rumbled across his ribs like thunder. “I gotta stop.”  
  
“That's one of the birds I wanted to kill.” Jackie sat down on his lap. Only a cotton robe was protecting his privates, but she was careful. “You drink too much, baby.” Her fingertips brushed through his wet hair tenderly. “When you get home from work, you drink so much beer that you're barely present with me anymore. I don't like it, and you need to have consequences. To wake you up.”  
  
“So I'm Greg Brady.”  
  
“Yes. It was either this, or I stage an intervention … which probably wouldn't have gotten through to you.”  
  
A sigh pulled out of him. He needed time to process all of this, but he still hadn't gotten the full story. He recalled a bit from the tape. “Thirty-thousand bucks?”  
  
“That's the second bird,” she said, and a quaver set into her voice. She was frightened, and he guided her body to rest against him. He sat back in the chair with her—as reassurance he wasn't going anywhere, that he'd listen until she was finished—and, finally, she explained. “In Las Vegas, Paramount is having a contest for _Brady Bunch_ impersonators. The first-prize winners get to collectively share thirty-thousand dollars. I've already recruited our friends, and they're waiting for us at the Formans'. We rented a V.W. bus, and we're gonna drive to Vegas.”  
  
“I look nothin' like Greg-freakin'-Brady.”  
  
_“Mm-hmm.”_ That was her way of saying she disagreed with him; he'd heard it many times before, and she got off his lap. A pink folder was in her hands a moment later. She pulled out a promotional photo of Barry Williams, the actor who played Greg, and held it in front of his face.  
  
“You have the same curly hair,” she said, “the same sideburns, and now the same hair color. Your eyes are blue like his, and your body-type is similar, too.” She tapped the photo with her finger. “But you're going as the _Johnny Bravo_ version of Greg Brady. That's where the outfit comes in. He's a cool rock n' roller.”  
  
“No, he's a lame-ass pop singer.” His jaw clenched, and a heavy breath pushed out of his nose. “Man, you've been my chick for three years. Your idea of cool should've improved by now.”  
  
“Oh, whatever. You get to wear your sunglasses.”  
  
He studied the hippie-inspired clothes in the photo. Barry Williams looked like a moron, and Hyde would look almost as ridiculous. But getting to wear his shades was a consolation. “Fine. Who're you goin' as?”  
  
“Marcia.” She slid the photo back into the folder. “Donna will be Jan, and Fez will be Cindy—”  
  
He coughed. “Fez is goin' as a chick?”  
  
“He has her lisp, and it's Vegas.” She put the folder on the end table. “They don't care if you're white or black, male or female, or even foreign. … Actually, they _do_ care if you're foreign because then you're not eligible, but Fez has his citizenship, so he's fine.”  
  
“Who else did you wrangle into this?”  
  
“I'll let you find out when we get to the Formans'.” She started folding up Hyde's old clothes on the couch.  
  
“Hey, don't I need those?”  
  
“It takes over a day to drive to Vegas. I don't want you stinking up your costume before we get there.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
He remained in the armchair. The smog had lifted from his brain, allowing for clarity of thought. Jackie was right about his drinking. He'd been working extra hard to pay for their wedding. W.B. offered to pay for it, but a home took priority over what was essentially a party. So Hyde asked him instead for a down-payment on their future house.  
  
Still, Jackie had hoped for a lavish wedding her whole life. Hyde wanted to give her what she wanted—in spite of his own apathy about weddings—but he was becoming both a workaholic and an alcoholic in the process.  
  
His head had been too deep in the pressure to realize it. He rarely spent time with friends anymore, and Jackie probably recruited Forman and Kelso for this contest, too. Hanging out with them for a few days would help his psyche. And winning six-grand would let him cut his hours back to something reasonable.  
  
He inhaled deeply, and smelling the chemicals soaked into his scalp, he keenly felt his distance from those he loved—including Jackie. He'd created it, and she must've been freaking out. No wonder she was talking about him to his family.  
  
She paused in her packing up. She'd caught him staring at her. “What?”  
  
“I think your illicit dye-job fixed my brain.” He stood up and went to her, but sadness choked his speech. He cleared his throat. “I'm sorry … for driftin' away the last few months. I'm not—” A wave of vulnerability crashed into him, and he glanced down at the hardwood floor. “I'm not good at this 'grownup' stuff, you know? Still tryin' to figure out the balance.”  
  
“You're better at it than you think.” She eased her arms around his waist. “You had to grow up too fast thanks to your lushy parents. Your orphan soul didn't get to be a kid long enough, but there _is_ a balance.”  
  
He hoped like hell she was right. He held her tightly, and her cheek nestled against his.  
  
“I tried talking to you about it in the mornings,” she said by his ear, “before work, but you've been so pestered and annoyed by every little thing. Then at night, you don't stay sober enough for anything I say to have a lasting effect.”  
  
Shame burned in Hyde's stomach like a mass of lit cigarettes. Her description of his behavior reminded him of Bud. He knew he'd end up falling into his stepfather's pattern. That was why he hadn't wanted to get engaged or married—to anyone. Ever.  
  
“Grasshopper,” he stroked the back of her hair, “I'm really sorry.”  
  
“It's okay, Puddin'. We're gonna figure this out together.”  
  
“See, that's never been how I operate,” he said. “Thought I'd be livin' my life alone. My screwups were supposed to screw only _me,_ no one else. But lovin' people—letting 'em love me—made crap complicated.”  
  
“Well, _The Brady Bunch_ is going to help us _un_ complicate things.” She pressed a warm kiss into the side of his neck then pulled away from him. “I know I tricked you, but it was for a good cause.”  
  
He nodded. She wouldn't have done it unless she was desperate, and thinking about it raised gooseflesh on his arms. The depth of her love for him was terrifying sometimes. She'd risked losing him to bring him back to himself.  
  
But she didn't know the root cause of his getting lost. It was the depth of his love for her.  
  
The feelings she inspired in him were overwhelming. Before her and the Formans, his fundamental examples of love were neglect and abuse. To avoid those hazardous pits, he'd ended up digging his own grave. Impersonating Greg Brady this week was a penance he'd earned.  
  
“Guess I should pack up,” he said.  
  
Jackie had his folded-up clothes in her arms. “Oh, your bag is packed already except for your costume.”  
  
“Cool. I got a few things to do before we go.”  
  
“Like what?” she said, but he was already halfway to their bedroom.  
  
Once inside, he removed his robe and dressed in his usual garb: jeans, a black Led Zeppelin shirt, and his Frye boots. Then he went to the kitchen and did the real work. He took his beer out of the fridge. He emptied the cans of Schlitz into the sink and dumped them into the trash bin.  
  
“Steven, what are you doing?” Jackie called from the living room.  
  
He answered by showing her. He returned to the living room, and she followed him to the large closet by the front door. It contained their winter coats, other seasonal clothes, and the case of beer he'd stashed away. Buying booze in bulk was cheaper, but he hefted the case onto his shoulder. “Jackie, open the door for me?”  
  
She did what he asked, and her expression was hopeful. She had to understand by now what he was up to. Her trust in him was something he'd too often mistreated. He needed to be worthy of it.  
  
Outside in the hallway, he went to the floor's garbage room. He opened the case of beer and dropped each can down the incinerator chute. The old patterns stopped here, with the Goddamned _Brady Bunch._

* * *

Jackie and Steven arrived at the Formans' on schedule. All her recruits for _The Brady Bunch_ contest were gathered in the living room, along with their suitcases and someone she hadn't expected: _Brooke._ She was standing with Michael, but Jackie had no chance to ask why. Everyone but Fez burst out laughing as soon as she and Steven stepped inside the house.  
  
“Wow, you actually did it!” Donna said while pointing at Steven's hair.  
  
Eric grinned smugly. “ _Sha-na-na-na-na_ —welcome, Johnny Bravo!”  
  
“Yeah, yeah,” Steven said, and he looked at Jackie. “How many people did you freakin' invite for this trip?”  
  
“One less than who's here,” she said. Then she questioned her recruits. “What's going on?”  
  
People fidgeted at her question and glanced at one another. Only Fez and Mr. Forman showed any lack of fear. Instead, they both seemed grouchy.  
  
Eric elbowed Donna, and she said, “I'm not telling her. Kelso should.”  
  
Michael shook his head. “No, Kelso shouldn't. Peter Brady didn't walk around with bruised shins, and I'm not gonna, either.”  
  
“For God's sake,” Mr. Forman said, “you're all a bunch of sissies. Jackie, you're out as Marcia.”  
  
“What?” Jackie's word was a shriek, and everyone winced at the volume of her voice. “No, I have _always_ been the Marcia of this group.”  
  
“Well, you're not anymore, sister,” Fez said. He was slumped at the foot of the Formans' couch. “But I shouldn't have called you that. Sadly, we are no longer sisters. I'm out as Thindy, too.”  
  
Jackie glared at Michael. “Why?”  
  
Michael shook his head again, but Eric stepped forward and said, “Look, Jackie, thirty-thousand dollars is a lot of money, even divided among ten people. You want to win this thing, don't you?”  
  
“Yes, but if I'm not Marcia...?”  
  
“I've watched a lot of _The Brady Bunch_ over the years,” Eric gestured to her legs, “and unless you're wearing stilts, no one's gonna buy you as Marcia—especially in comparison to Donna's Jan. So we brought in Brooke to be Marcia. You're gonna be—”  
  
“No, no, no— _I'm_ Marcia.” Jackie patted her heart. “I spent a month planning out who would be who.”  
  
“Plans change,” Donna said. She pointed to each person in the room one-by-one. “Mr. Forman has the surliness to be Sam the Butcher. Mrs. Forman is as sweet as Mrs. Brady—”  
  
“Why, thank you, Donna,” Mrs. Forman said and proceeded to laugh.  
  
Donna continued. “My dad's got Mr. Brady's curly hair. Joanne's got Alice's sarcasm. Eric's got Bobby Brady's boyish look. Put a blonde wig on Brooke, and she's _Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!_ ” Jackie huffed, but Donna kept talking. “Put a blonde wig on me, and I can pull off Jan. Kelso does a good Peter Brady impression with the cracking voice, and—well, Hyde _is_ Greg Brady. Especially with the darker hair.”  
  
Steven sighed, but his irritation was no match for Jackie's. “Are you saying I'm—”  
  
“Thindy!” Fez shouted. “A role that was rightfully mine.”  
  
“I am _not_ Thindy—I mean Cindy,” Jackie said.  
  
“You're short,” Eric said. “You're Cindy.”  
  
She crossed her arms over her chest. These imbeciles were ruining her plans. “Bobby was short, too,” she said.  
  
Eric knelt down on the rug. “And that's why I'm gonna walk around on my knees. I've got pads for them that fit under my jeans, and I tested out my sneakers. They'll fit over my knees just fine.”  
  
“But I'm the popular one everyone wants to be! I'm not a lisping gossip!”  
  
“You got one-fourth of that right,” Steven said.  
  
She smacked his arm. “Are you saying I have a lisp?  
  
“No, I'm sayin'...” He paused, as if he was re-thinking his answer. “I'm sayin' you'll be so hot in in Vegas you'll make all the Marcias wish they were Cindy.”  
  
“Aww, Steven...” her anger dissolved into affection, “you're so right!” and she rubbed his arm where she'd hit him. “Fine, I'll be Cindy. But what about Fez? He was supposed to get some of the winnings.”  
  
“He still will,” Brooke said. “If we win, Michael and I will give him a third of our portion.”  
  
Steven turned toward Fez. “Okay, so why the hell are you so freakin' pissed then? You get the potential of winning cash without having to do any of this crap.”  
  
“I wanted to dress up,” Fez said.  
  
Red clapped his hands once. “So we're all settled? Good. We got a long drive ahead of us, so get your asses outside and into the bus.”  
  
“I have to pee!” Fez shot to his feet. “Don't leave without me!”  
  
He ran upstairs to the Formans' bathroom while everyone else filed into the kitchen. They entered the driveway through the sliding glass door, and a Volkswagen bus, much like the one Michael used to own but bigger, was waiting for them.  
  
Fez rushed outside by the time Jackie and Steven had boarded the bus. Steven helped Fez pull his suitcase inside, and Fez sat in the seat with Michael and Brooke.  
  
Mr. Forman had driving duty for the first part of the trip. Steven went to the front of the bus to sit by him, but Jackie didn't mind. Steven would probably ask for some pre-marriage advice, and she liked that he was being proactive about their relationship.  
  
“Jackie,” Fez patted the seat next to him, “sit with Fez. I must give you advice on playing Thindy.”  
  
She did as Fez said, joining him, Michael and Brooke in their seat. The fit was tight but manageable, and Fez demonstrated Cindy's facial expressions. Jackie imitated them as best she could. She still wasn't happy with her role change, but their chances of winning had probably improved because of it.  
  
Jackie's main concern, however, was getting Steven back. Her ploy had increased their odds of success, but the game was forfeit if he didn't keep his promise to stay sober.

* * *

Hyde had slipped into the seat across from Red. He intended to have a quick man-to-man confab, but Red was muttering about driving a German-made vehicle. Eventually, though, he spared Hyde a glance and chuckled. “Your hair really is something. How'd Jackie bamboozle you into this?”  
  
“Was gonna ask you the same thing 'bout Mrs. Forman,” Hyde said. Mrs. Forman was sitting with Bob and Joanne, chatting about Las Vegas and the possibility of meeting Wayne Newton.  
  
“Money,” Red said.  
  
“That's all? There's no guarantee we'll win, man. There'll probably be thousands of Brady-losers there.”  
  
“Jackie's TV show is footing the bill for our traveling expenses and hotel rooms. They're gonna film this, you know.” Red's back straightened, and his eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. “I'm gonna be on television.”  
  
Hyde did know. Jackie had told him on the drive to Point Place, much to his annoyance, but Red seemed excited. “Holy hell,” Hyde said, “you actually _want_ to do this.”  
  
Red coughed. “No. I—Kitty. She's never been to Vegas. She kept goin' on about having a second honeymoon. It figures we'd end up spending it with all of _you._ ”  
  
Hyde smirked. “It's okay, man. Your secret's safe with me.”  
  
“Yeah? And what's your secret? Did your loud fiancée threaten you?”  
  
“She got me drunk. Taped me agreein' to this.”  
  
Red laughed again. “Oh, your life with her's gonna be a boatload of fun, son.”  
  
“That's what I'm hopin',” Hyde said quietly, and his gaze drifted to the window, to the highway speeding past. He recognized himself in the gray blur. Jackie deserved more from him than a vague presence, and silently he reaffirmed his promise to give it to her.

* * *

Jackie kept her focus off Steven's conversation with Mr. Forman—mainly, because she couldn't hear what they were talking about. She'd switched her attention to Brooke. Betsy was staying with Brooke's mother, apparently, but Michael had suggested taking Betsy with them to Las Vegas.  
  
“But I told him,” Brooke said, “that Marcia and Peter Brady sharing a child would probably go against _The Brady Bunch's_ wholesome image.”

 _Wholesome._ Jackie internally scoffed at the word. She'd had a less-than-wholesome crush on Greg Brady when she was younger. It was embarrassing now and not something she'd admit to anyone. But maybe some of her innate physical attraction to Steven had to do with his partial resemblance to Greg.  
  
Michael bounced in the seat. “Peter gettin' it on with the hottest Brady would be so—”  
  
“Erotic,” Fez said, and Jackie's stomach turned. The idea of siblings having sex was disgusting. She'd never engage in a weirdo incestuous _Brady Bunch_ role-play with Steven. “And I will watch,” Fez continued, “because all good TV shows need an audience.”  
  
“Remind me again why you're friends with him,” Brooke said, and Michael shrugged.  
  
Jackie couldn't take this discussion anymore, and anticipation was tangled up in her veins. She'd been holding back vital information from everyone. Mr. Forman had driven them into Illinois, and she pulled a cassette tape from her purse. Now was the perfect time to break the news.  
  
She walked up to the front of the V.W. bus and kissed Steven on the cheek. “Hey,” he said with a slight smile.  
  
His happiness at her presence set off fireworks in her heart. It always did, but she had work to do. She used the back of his seat to support herself. Then she popped her cassette into the bus's tape deck. “I have a little announcement to make,” she said. “Steven, can you help me get everyone's attention?”  
  
“Since when do you need my help getting attention?”  
  
“Never, but I don't want Mr. Forman to swerve off the highway because of my shrill, demanding voice.”  
  
Steven's smile grew. “I like how you keep seein' the bigger picture of things.” He stood up, and she slid her arm around his back. “Hey, Brady-Geeks,” he said with an authoritative but unjarring voice, “listen up! Jackie's got somethin' to say here.”

Everyone but Mr. Forman looked at her. “Do you all want to win this thirty thousand dollars?”she said, and the bus erupted in a cheered. “Good, so you'll all be fine with having to sing one of the Bradys' songs.”  
  
Confused mumblings floated through the air, including Steven's, and Jackie went into detail. “The top non-performing Brady impersonators will only win trifles. The money prizes are going to groups that _perform,_ so I brought my tape of _The Bradys' Greatest Hits—”  
  
_ “More like _The Bradys' Greatest Shits,_ ” Steven said, and she fought the urge to elbow him.  
  
“We have plenty of time on the road to learn the lyrics to 'Time to Change,'” she said, and a loud, collective groan answered her. “Well, if you're not willing to sing, we might as well turn this bus around.”  
  
“We are not turning this bus around,” Mrs. Forman said, and she stood up. “Come on, everyone—it'll be fun!”  
  
“No, it won't!” Eric said in the seat behind her. “It's gonna be hard enough walking on my knees, but now I have to sing, too?”  
  
“Oh, you'll do fine, honey,” Mrs. Forman said. “You were a perfect tree in your first-grade play, and you'll be a perfect Bobby Brady—because you're my perfect baby boy.” Mrs. Forman maneuvered out of her seat, passed by Jackie and Steven, and plunked down on the passenger seat. “Jackie, let's hear this song.”  
  
Jackie pressed _play_ on the bus's tape deck. The Bradys' voices sang harmoniously from the speaker, and Mr. Forman grimaced. “Kitty,” he said, “I am not singing that fruity song. I'm not singing, period.”  
  
“So you can fake it,” Mrs. Forman said, “and maybe I'll fake something else during this trip.”  
  
Mr. Forman's cheeks reddened, and Jackie suppressed an awe-filled giggle. Mrs. Forman was wise in the ways of husband-control. Jackie would have to take more notes, but right now she had a note for Mrs. Forman: “When the song ends, rewind the tape and start it again.”  
  
Mrs. Forman nodded. “Will do.”  
  
Things were progressing well. Mrs. Forman would manipulate Mr. Forman into learning the song's lyrics. Bob already understood the melody and was humming along. Soon, the whole bus would be belting out "Time to Change".  
  
Jackie led Steven confidently to Donna and Eric's seat. They sat down together, but Steven didn't appear pleased. “Jackie,” he said, speaking low, “you said nothin' about me singing.”  
  
She would've preferred more privacy, but Eric and Donna were deep in their own conversation. Their distraction was all the privacy she would get, and she spoke in whispers. “Well, sometimes the bigger picture takes time to reveal itself.”  
  
Steven raked his fingers through his brown-dyed curls. He was thinking about something and took time before responding. “At least you didn't pick 'It's a Sunshine Day'.”  
  
“I'm not crazy.” She grasped his hand and kissed the back of it. “I don't want you to commit suicide on this trip.”  
  
His fireworks-inducing smile returned, followed by a laugh. “Glad you're keepin' me in mind.”

* * *

* * *

**Stock Used for Cover Art:**

  * [Brady Bunch Character Frames Format (FREE USE)](http://worldwideimage.deviantart.com/art/Brady-Bunch-Character-Frames-Format-FREE-USE-400168467)
  * [Colonial Blue Background Texture](http://donnamarie113.deviantart.com/art/Colonial-Blue-Background-TExture-322166817)
  * [grain](http://toomuchfilth-stock.deviantart.com/art/grain-17627114)




	2. Winter Turns to Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER TWO **  
WINTER TURNS TO SPRING**

_November 14, 1980  
  
Las Vegas, Nevada  
  
The Wintry Hotel and Casino_

**...**

The Wintry Hotel lobby was as lavish as it was tacky, and Hyde's eyes stung from the over-indulgent opulence. Diamond chandeliers brightened every corner. Velvet sofas and chairs surrounded cigar tables, and his nose stung from the stench of smoke. Jackie was checking everyone into their rooms, but he wanted her to finish already so he could sleep.  
  
He was standing behind her at the gold-plated concierge desk. He tried to relax, but his mind stung from that _Brady Bunch_ song she'd forced them to listen to—ten times in Iowa, fifteen in Nevada, and he lost count as they drove into Colorado. That was when she and Fez taught them their dance choreography.  
  
Thirty-thousand dollars wasn't worth this hell. Yet he'd willingly plunged into it ... because his relationship with Jackie was worth everything. It was a truth that existed in his guts, and if he had a soul, the truth probably dwelled there, too.   
  
“Steven, we're all checked in,” Jackie finally said. She pulled him away from the concierge desk and hugged herself to his side. “I love spending other people's money … especially when it can get me a ton of my own money.”  
  
His hand slipped down her back stealthily and patted her butt. “ _What's Up, Wisconsin?_ doesn't expect you to give 'em a cut of the winnings, does it?”  
  
“Of course not. This is totally legitimate.” She slapped his butt in return, harder than he expected. He stifled a laugh in her hair while she kept talking. “By covering the _Brady Bunch_ convention, my show's getting fun footage to use. We've already booked actors from the TV movie for interviews. Also, Paramount's buying ad space during _What's Up, Wisconsin?'s_ time block. So the money my show's spending on us will come back ten-times over.”  
  
“Cool.” A smirk slid over his lips. “And hot.”  
  
“Why hot?”  
  
“You got brains, baby,” he said, but she stiffened beneath his arm. “What?”  
  
“Just … thinking used to give me a headache and hives. But when we started to date, all your complex thoughts became a real turn-on. And now I really enjoy thinking, too.”  
  
“That bad?”  
  
“Different.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “But—but sometimes I wish I could go back to being stupid.”  
  
He cupped her cheeks. “I'm not gonna let you down, okay?” he said quietly. She nodded between his palms, but he found only partial confidence in her eyes.   
  
The rest of their group was standing by one of the cigar tables, chatting. No one else seemed to share his exhaustion, but he'd had the last driving shift. They'd all gotten to sleep while he drove them into Vegas.  
  
“Jackie...” He looked at his watch; the time was a little after 2:00 p.m. “I'm gonna hit the hay.”  
  
“Okay, but you have to be up by five. We've got a lot of work to do before the contest tomorrow.”  
  
His mouth went slack. “Work?”   
  
“Yes. You know, making sure we're comfortable in our costumes while performing the choreography?” She passed him a copy of their room key. “But you get some rest. I have to meet with my show's production team in twenty minutes anyway.”  
  
She pecked him on the lips and joined the others by the cigar table. She had to be telling them of their obligations. Bob gestured to a large sign that read: “CASINO”. A golden arrow beneath the word pointed toward a wide, stone archway. Jackie tapped her watch, and he put up his hands in acquiescence.  
  
Hyde yawned, and his vision grew blurry watching this all unfold. He really needed that nap and trudged to the bank of elevators.  
  
On the hotel's twenty-third floor, he opened the door to his and Jackie's room—only it wasn't just a room but a suite. The living room had a couch, two armchairs, and an incredible view of Las Vegas. It also had a television that was thirty inches, if not bigger.  
  
But his main interest was the bedroom. A bellhop had already put his and Jackie's suitcases onto suitcase stands, so Hyde didn't need to wait for that. He took a pit stop at the suite's sizable bathroom. It had both a shower and a freakin' whirlpool tub. Then he pulled off his boots and collapsed onto the bed. His body was dead-tired, and the bed was so comfy that he fell asleep in minutes. 

* * *

Jackie's meeting with _What's Up, Wisconsin?'s_ production team had gone well. Bruce and Max, the camera man and boom operator, were outside her and Steven's suite now, getting their equipment ready. They would be taping the rehearsal for the show. Jackie, though, had preparations to make before that could happen.  
  
She entered the suite alone and spent a moment in the living room. Its furniture and décor were luxurious, and a longing ache settled in her chest. She'd used her mother's best flattering techniques to get this suite, cajoled the show's executive producer to pay a little extra. As a child, staying in expensive, richly decorated places was a given. As an adult, it was a special event. She and Steven would have to make the most of their time here.   
  
Outside the living room's huge window, other hotels rose into Las Vegas's sky. She allowed herself a minute to gaze at them. Skylines like this still filled her dreams, but filling her nightmares lately were visions of unsafe rooftops. Their tar-paved floor would be crumbling, and they had no protective fencing.  
  
In those dreams, she and Steven were always together. They stood on a roof's uneven surface, too close the edge. He'd lose his balance on the crumbling tar. His alcohol-slicked hands couldn't hold onto her, and she'd scream as he plummeted off the building, falling, falling, until the ground hit him, pulverizing his body into nothing.   
  
She turned away from the window. Her throat was tight with the memory of Steven's dream-self dying. Their suite was entirely too quiet. It allowed negative thoughts to proliferate, but rehearsing _The_ _Brady_ _Bunch_ routine would distract her. She stepped into the bedroom, and Steven's soft snoring broke the silence. He looked adorable when sleeping, like a little boy.  
  
But he'd probably be cranky once she woke him. She tried to do so gently, stroked his cheek and said his name, but he was too deep in slumber. “Steven!” she shouted. “Steven, Steven, Steven!” and his eyes popped open.   
  
“Shit.” A clock-radio sat on the nightstand, and he angled his head toward it. “4:30. I got a half-hour.” His eyes shut again, and he pressed his face into the pillows.  
  
“No, you don't.” She grasped his shoulder and shook him. “You have to help me arrange the living room.”  
  
He groaned but sat up. His hair was a mess, and she combed her fingers through it. “What do I gotta do?” he said.  
  
She told him, and ten minutes later, the living room's furniture was all pushed against the wall. A decent performance space had been created. Steven was a bit sweaty from the effort, and she rewarded him with a kiss. Her mouth pushed into his deeply, and he stiffened at first. Her intensity must have surprised him, and his breath caught, but then his own fervor took over.   
  
They ended up on the couch, making out and touching each other beneath their clothes—and a sense of longing agonized her whole body. It was far stronger than the ache she'd felt earlier. This one coiled around the most fundamental part of her, ever-tightening with how much she missed their physical intimacy.   
  
Their sex life had suffered the last few months. His body, mind, and heart had all boarded a raft while she remained on dry land. The current of their lives was sweeping him out to sea, not one of saltwater but work and alcohol.  
  
“Baby,” she said as their breaths mingled. Yesterday he'd apologized for drifting away, but perhaps she was the one who'd shoved him off.  
  
Instead of pausing, he kissed her so powerfully that fireworks burst in her stomach.  
  
“Ste—Steven,” she tried again. This time, his forehead leaned into hers, and his hands stilled on her back. His body felt so warm, so _present._ She hadn't experienced this much closeness to him in too long. “Maybe we should break off our engagement.”  
  
“What?” He sat up straight, withdrawing some of his warmth. “Why?”  
  
“Because it's hurting you.”  
  
“No, it's not.”   
  
“Yes, it is.” She clutched one of his hands, and her thumb traced his knuckles. “You once told me you thought life would 'go to crap' if we got married—”  
  
“I never said that.” His own thumb caressed the side of her palm. “I was talkin' about becoming a responsible, working stiff, trapped in the throes of societal obligations.”  
  
“Well, whatever you meant, you were right. Life with me is going to crap.”  
  
“Jackie, I didn'tsay that, all right? Life _without_ you is what'd be crap. That's why I'm working so damn hard. I don't—” He stopped talking, and his eyes iced over, as if he were terrified of what he'd almost revealed.   
  
“You don't _what,_ Steven?” Her heart sped up when he didn't answer. “I need you to tell me. Finish your sentence.”  
  
“I—”  
  
An urgent knock at the suite's door disrupted him, and Jackie cursed. Had five o'clock come already? She got off the couch and looked through the door's peephole. Their friends, the Formans, and the Pinciottis were all gathered in the hallway. Bruce and Max were with them, ready to record the rehearsal for the show.  
  
She opened the suite door. Everyone who was supposed to be in costume was in costume—except for herself and Steven.  
  
“Oh, my God!” Donna said upon seeing the living room. “Jackie, what the hell?”  
  
“You have a suite?” Michael said. “No fair! I'm sharin' a room with Brooke and Fez!”  
  
“Take it up with my executive producer,” Jackie said. She grabbed Steven's shirt sleeve and yanked him off the couch. “We have to get dressed.”  
  
She brought him into the bedroom, but their suitcases were still in the living room. Anxiety swelled in her chest like the ocean at high-tide. “Steven, our bags. Our costumes—”  
  
“Got 'em.” He left the bedroom and returned a moment later, lugging both suitcases into the room.  
  
“Thank you,” she said and fought the tears burning her eyes. Steven had grown into the support and stability she'd never had, a diamond wedged firmly in the dirt. But when he drank, the diamond became the fulcrum of a teeter-totter. She couldn't rely on him then. He'd be too out of it, too tired, too unfocused.   
  
She opened the suitcases and pulled out their Brady costumes. She laid out them on the carpet, smoothed out their fabric obsessively, and refused to do anything different. Inside her mind Steven was splitting into two. His left half turned into her father, a workaholic who was never home. The right half turned into her mother, an alcoholic who was emotionally unavailable.  
  
Eventually, both her parents had left her for good. Her father's illicit dealings sent him to prison, and her mother's narcissism compelled her out of the country. Would Steven do the same? Abandon Jackie forever?  
  
“This cheap fabric isn't cooperating!” She slapped the wrinkles in Steven's orange dashiki shirt, tried to beat them down, but only an iron would fix the problem. “I don't know how to iron, Steven. We don't have time for this!”  
  
She pounded her fist into the shirt, and Steven crouched beside her. “Give it a rest,” he said. “You're gonna bruise your knuckles.” He removed the shirt from her sight, and her vision filled with carpet. “Jackie, come on...” His voice was quiet, plaintive.   
  
She shook her head, and a tear broke free. It slipped down the side of her nose. “You swore to me,” she whispered, “you swore you'd never cheat on me again.”  
  
“What the hell are you talkin' about?”   
  
She braved looking at him. Anger was in his face. “Alcohol,” she said. “You've been cheating on me with it.”  
  
“You saw me toss it all out before we left.”  
  
“Yes, but how long until you decide one beer is okay? Then two? Then...” Her throat thickened, and she picked up her Cindy costume. A lavender shirt and violet overalls made up the majority of it. She stood up and put the costume on the bed. Then took off her clothes. “I'm scared, Steven. I'm scared that what I say to you has no lasting effect. That—that your need to numb yourself is more important to you than I am.”  
  
“Booze is freakin' done.” He stood up with his dashiki shirt. “I'm not my parents … and I'm not gonna be.”  
  
“You're already turning into mine,” she said.  
  
His eyes widened, but a knock jostled the bedroom door. Mr. Forman's muffled voice came through: “Would you two hurry it up? We wanna get this crap over with already.”  
  
“One more minute!” Jackie shouted. She snatched up Cindy's blonde, pig-tailed wig and put it on her head. She checked her reflection in the vanity, made some adjustments, and Steven's reflection joined hers.  
  
“You're gonna have to trust me,” he said. “You're gonna have to take that risk.”  
  
She turned toward him. He was fully dressed in his Greg Brady costume, except that his sunglasses were hooked on his shirt collar. “Why areyou—” Her breath hitched. She was afraid of hearing his answer, but she forced the question out. “Why you working so hard at the store?”  
  
His mouth opened, but he hesitated. She answered for him inwardly. _He was sick of her. Working allowed him to stay away. He needed space—_  
  
“To keep you in the life you want,” he said, breaking up her thoughts. Then his voice grew almost inaudible. “To keep you.”  
  
She stared at him in silence, but her heart beat noisily against her ribs. When had he internalized her demands? Her expectations? To her face, he dismissed her most selfish of desires, but in secret his spirit had to be absorbing them.   
  
Her body began to tremble. How could she possibly mean so much to him? That he'd be willing to destroy himself for her happiness? But even now, he stood before her with dyed hair and wearing an outfit from his younger days. It was a sacrifice for their relationship, something he should've fought ferociously against.  
  
“We—” she started to say, but a loud bang on the bedroom door made her jump.  
  
“Jackie,” Mr. Forman shouted, “you and Steven get your asses out here—or I'm dragging them out!” He banged on the door again to emphasize his point.   
  
“Better do what he says,” Steven said, and they rushed into the living room. Everyone was in their performance positions, and Bruce and Max were in position to record.  
  
“Sorry for the delay,” Jackie said.  
  
“Finally,” Eric said. He was standing on his feet, and no shoes were attached to his knees. He'd clearly decided to give Bobby Brady a growth spurt and do the choreography properly. “We were about to start without you.”   
  
Donna nodded, and the ends of her blonde wig fell from her shoulders. “Yeah, my dad already sang through 'Time to Change' two times.”  
  
“What?” Bob said. He looked like an overweight Mike Brady in his dress shirt and tie. “I like that song—and it's good luck, too. I sang it while playing the slots, and I won fifty bucks!”  
  
“Enough of your idle chatter!” Fez said. He was sitting in an armchair pushed against the wall, and he held up a small a cassette player. Jackie had bought it in one of the hotel's shops. “Jackie, give Fez the tape.”  
  
Blood drained from Jackie's face. “Oh, no … I left it on the bus. In the tape deck.”  
  
The room exploded in a barrage of complaints—including an unexpected and nasty swear-word from Brooke—but Mrs. Forman's voice rose above them all. “Now—now this isn't a problem. We all know the lyrics. We'll just have to rehearse without the music.”  
  
“Kitty's right,” Joanne said. Alice's blue-and-white housekeeper outfit flattered her body, and her encouraging smile calmed Jackie's nerves. “All right, people, a-one, a-two—” Joanne took a breath and started to sing, _“Sha-na-na-na-na-na-na-na...”_ and everyone tentatively joined her.  
  
Steven sang the first verse alone with his thin but in-tune voice while Fez and Jackie led the group in their dance choreography. The performance went smoothly from there until Michael sang with a purposely breaking voice, and the room burst into laughter.   
  
“Keep going!” Jackie said, and the singing and dancing continued until the end of the song.  
  
They ran through the routine three more times, and though certain details could be improved upon, they were probably as good as they were going to get.  
  
“Wow,” Bruce said after filming, “you guys have it in the bag.”  
  
Donna grinned.“You know, I really think we do.”  
  
“We better,” Mr. Forman said. “I'm gonna need thirty-thousand dollars worth of beer to forget this week.”  
  
“Red.” Kitty smacked his chest.  
  
“Well, I'm ready for dinner.” Bob glided his thick arm around Joanne's waist. “All this dancing's worked up an appetite.”  
  
“We all better take off our costumes first, though,” Joanne said.  
  
“Sure...” Bob winked at her, “but we're putting them back on _after_ dinner. Mike Brady's gonna have an affair with his sexy housekeeper.”  
  
“For God's sake, Bob!” Mr. Forman gestured angrily to the suite's front door. “Get outta here with that crap—unless Mike Brady wants to finds Sam the Butcher's cleaver up his ass.”  
  
“Well, that _would_ fit the storyline,” Bob said. “Sam and Alice were an item on the show … and Sam probably wouldn't be too happy with Mike boffing his girlfriend.”  
  
“ _Eww,_ Dad—enough!” Donna pulled off her blonde wig.   
  
“No one can wear their costumes again until tomorrow,” Jackie said. “Everybody needs to call the hotel's laundry service before dinner—and put your costumes in the provided laundry bags. They'll be returned in the morning without your stinky sweat on them.”  
  
“Yeah, speaking of the morning,” Donna said, “when does the convention start?”  
  
“10:00 a.m., but the contest isn't until 4:00 p.m. We'll have to sign some papers, though, and carouse around with other convention attendees before then. So we should meet here by two.”  
  
“Ooh, that's great!” Michael said. His arm was draped over Brooke's shoulders. “Gives Brooke and me a chance to do it. Yeah, how hot is that? Peter nailing Marcia would've raised _The Brady Bunch's_ ratings. Maybe the camera crew should stay in our room tomorrow.”  
  
“Michael,” Brooke frowned and shrugged his arm off her, “almost all of what you said is really disturbing.”  
  
“Okay,” Michael said, “you're gonna have to be specific.”  
  
“Be specific outside,” Steven said. He was at the suite door, and he'd opened it wide. “Jackie and me need some downtime.”  
  
“That means they're going to make love,” Fez said. “May I stay?”  
  
Steven scowled. “Out, Fez.”  
  
Everyone took that as their cue to leave. They left in pairs except for Fez, who straggled behind. Steven shoved him outside and shut the door.  
  
“Room service?” Jackie said and dropped her Cindy wig on the coffee table. “I don't want to share you tonight.”  
  
“Sure.” He tossed his sunglasses beside her wig. Then he pulled off his sweat-soaked orange dashiki shirt. “I'm gonna change.”  
  
He started for the bedroom, but she raced in front of him. Her hand landed on his bare chest. “Stay,” she said. “Please. Just for a few minutes.”  
  
“You just wanna ogle me with my shirt off.”  
  
“Yes.” She wasn't going to deny that. “And I want us to finish our conversation.”  
  
“Then you're gonna have to take off those overalls—and the shirt.”  
  
“Fine.” She removed her costume, leaving her naked except for her bra and panties. “This room's kind of cold.”  
  
His gaze raked over her body, “ I can see that,” but then he pulled her into an embrace so tender that she began to cry. Their relationship was too raw right now, too vulnerable. She desperately wanted to strengthen it, but she couldn't do that unless they were honest with each other.   
  
And, perhaps more importantly, they had to be honest with themselves. She'd accused Steven of becoming like her parents, but who was she?  
  
“I don't want to be my mother,” she said. Her voice was moist with tears, and she partially muffled it with his shoulder. “It's too late, though, isn't it?” Her unreasonably high standards had been inherited, but she'd chosen to keep them. Expensive jewelry, a big wedding, a high-limit credit card. These were the kinds of useless things Steven had been sacrificing himself for. Her arms tightened around his waist. “I've conditioned you like she conditioned my dad. I've wrecked us before we've really begun.”  
  
“That's bull.” He cupped the back of her head protectively, as if it would keep the turmoil of her heart from assaulting her brain. “I'm a big boy, and I make my own choices. Could've let W.B. pay for a lot more, but I can't do it. It's just not me.”  
  
“Neither is being miserable.”  
  
“No. That _is_ me.”   
  
“Well, you have to stop it.” She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes, and a memory surfaced. It manifested first as the earthy smell of wet leaves. The patter of rain hitting the ground came next, along with the sound of her and Steven's laughter. A storm had walloped Point Place during Halloween last year, but she and Steven went out that night anyway, ringing doorbells and asking for candy.

 

Most people slammed their doors on them, thinking their request was a prank. But some dropped candy into their plastic pumpkin buckets, which were halfway full of rainwater.  
  
She and Steven returned to Eric's basement afterward. Their friends were watching an old horror movie with bored looks on their faces. But when they spotted Jackie and Steven's drenched state, their boredom seemed to evaporate.  
  
“What the hell did you guys do?” Donna said. “Go swimming in the reservoir?”  
  
“Went trick-or-treating,” Steven said.   
  
“Candy?” Fez shot out of the lawn chair and knocked it over in the process. “Did you bring candy? Tell me you brought candy!”  
  
“It's floating in rainwater,” Jackie said, “but there's candy.”  
  
“Gimme!” Fez snatched the pumpkin bucket from her, and water splashed onto the basement floor.  
  
“What's with him?” Steven said.  
  
Eric waved toward the stairs. “Mom has a bunch of candy in the kitchen. She thinks there are crazies like you out there—I mean _kids_ —who're braving the storm for treats. The idea of so much untouchable 'wealth' has driven Fez a little batty.”  
  
“More batty than usual,” Donna said.  
  
“You know, I think there's some chocolate bats in here.” Steven put his pumpkin bucket down on the wooden spool table. “Happy Halloween.”  
  
He grasped Jackie's hand and led her toward his room. Both of their palms were wet from the rain. Their clothes were sopped, but they peeled off their shirts and pants once his door was locked. Drops of water speckled her skin. She reached for a towel he kept on his shelves, but he stopped her.  
  
Wordlessly, he dragged his wet finger up her arm and built up a pool of moisture. The act was both playful and personal, and it represented just how much they'd overcome together. She thought to share this insight, but her gaze was fixed to the water he'd so delicately balanced on his finger.  
  
“Jackie,” he said softly, “I love you.”  
  
Her arm twitched, and the water cascaded over his hand. He so rarely said those words, and hearing them startled her. The shock wore off quickly, though. Joy circulated through her blood and drove her into a love-lust frenzy. Steven didn't seem to mind. He welcomed it enthusiastically, concluding out loud that he'd been a moron for keeping those words to himself.   
  
His admission then had imprinted a smile on her heart. Their whole day together had.   
  
“You're the jewelry,” she said now in their Vegas suite. “You're the big wedding and high-limit credit card.”  
  
He gave her a strange look. “I'm what?”  
  
“My God, Steven, I could imagine you dying early and leaving me a rich widow—”  
  
“That's … super.”  
  
“No, listen,” she said, and the horror of her thoughts leaked into her tone. “The idea of spending your money on the condition I also spend the rest of my life without you? Even if you don't die? It's like a twisted deal with the devil and makes me physically ill. Do you understand?”  
  
“I'm tryin' to.” He stepped closer to her, but she couldn't bare his touch right now. She needed her head clear, and his touch would impede her ability to think.  
  
“I'm not saying I'd be thrilled living in a hovel,” she said, “or being poor. But I'd rather spend nights playing in the rain with you than schmooze with high society. I refuse to have the love of my life kill himself to give me an upper-class lifestyle. I just won't do it.”   
  
He sighed and reached toward her face. She let him touch her this time, and the backs of his fingers stroked her jawline. “That was a good day,” he said, “last Halloween.”  
  
“Cut your hours back to the way they were before,” she said, “and let's have more days like that, okay?”  
  
“Sounds good.” He drew her in for a kiss, and a vision of a less fragile future shone behind her eyes. The same vision must have lit up in his own mind because he whispered, “Sounds really good.”


	3. The Burkhart Bunch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. “Time to Change” copyright: (c) 1993 UMG Recordings, Inc.

CHAPTER THREE **  
THE BURKHART BUNCH**

_November 15, 1980_

_Las Vegas, Nevada_

_The Wintry Hotel Convention Center_

**...**

A long, carpeted hallway led to the Wintry Hotel's convention center, and each step closer caused Hyde's stomach to tighten. He kept a don't-talk-to-me sneer on his face, having no intention of schmoozing. Fortunately, Jackie was focused on their group, not on him, but his sneer fell away once they entered the convention's vast concourse. The place was packed to the walls with fake Bradys. Some could have passed for twins with the actors. Others, not so much.  
  
A Chinese Greg, transvestite Marcia, and canine Cindy made up one of the more interesting groups, and a smile threaded over Hyde's lips. The mix of people was amusing and a good sign that American society was moving forward, at least in some kind of way. He expected Red to have a problem with it, but Red made no distinction among the convention attendees.  
  
“Would you look at these Brady weirdos?” Red said. “Coming all the way to Las Vegas and dressing up like a bunch of hippie sissies.”  
  
“That includes you, too, _Sam,_ ” Forman said. “You're just as weird as, let's say...” he pointed to a transvestite Alice selling _Brady Bunch_ merchandise, “that guy.”  
  
Red raised his plastic meat cleaver. “Wanna say that again?”  
  
“I wouldn't,” Bob said. “He hit me with that thing last night. Gave me a bruise. Guess he didn't like that I made out with his girlfriend.”  
  
Donna tugged on Bob's arm. “Dad, could you _please_ stop taking this so seriously? You're giving me a neurosis.”  
  
Bob patted the back of her blonde-wigged head. “Sorry, honey. I'll save it for the stage.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Yeah, I'm gonna dip Jo-Jo at the end of our musical number and lay a big smoochy on her.”  
  
Jackie let out a shrieked gasp. She was leading the group through the convention center, to the registration table, but she turned around and glared at Bob. “Oh, no, you're not. You're not to deviate from our routine.”  
  
“Okey-dokey,” Bob said, and Jackie turned back around. Then he mouthed to Joanne, “Big, big smooch.”  
  
Bruce, the camera guy, gave Bob a thumbs-up. Bruce had apparently captured that moment on tape. He and Max, the sound guy, were following and filming their group, and Hyde was less than thrilled. His freakin' Brady-ness was going to be shown on television—but at least anyone who could burn him for it would be appearing alongside him. That was some consolation, and a little embarrassment was worth a shot at a lot of dough.  
  
Thirty grand, man. Hell, he'd consider dressing up in Cindy's pig-tailed wig if it meant him and Jackie could keep all that cash to themselves.  
  
A shiver of awareness crept up his back and knocked on his skull. _He'd consider dressing up in Cindy's pig-tailed wig?_ What was he thinking? He was willing to humiliate himself for money but not let W.B. give him a little extra? His father had offered to help with both the wedding and a house. He had connections everywhere, in country clubs and with hotels. He could probably get Hyde and Jackie a good deal on a wedding venue.  
  
But Hyde didn't want to be _that guy,_ the one W.B. had initially accused him of being: a long-lost heir only interested in his newfound dad's fortune.  
  
 _“He doesn't think that about you,”_ Jackie had told him countless times. _“He thinks that about_ me, _and it's partially true. But he also knows how much you want to make me happy, and he loves you enough to help you do it.”  
  
_ She was right, and maybe he could relax about it, enough to let W.B. put in a few calls and get them that deal on a wedding venue.  
  
For now, though, his attention drifted back to the various Bradys around him. Some groups were rehearsing in spaces between merchandise tables. Individual Bradys mingled with one another, as if the convention were a dating service. A little-person Bobby tried putting the moves on a corpulent Jan, and Hyde laughed. He looked like a moron himself, dressed the way he was, but the place was entertaining.  
“Jackie, you should really try practicing your lisp more,” Fez said. He'd joined Jackie and Hyde at the front of their group. “You will be more convincing.”  
  
“My lisp is as good as it's going to get,” Jackie said and waved him away.  
  
They arrived at the registration line seconds later. Two Brady families were ahead of them, and Jackie adjusted the straps of her violet overalls. That was the tenth time she'd done it since entering the convention center, and Hyde draped an arm around her shoulders, both as comfort and to make her quit fiddling with her costume.  
  
“You look fine,” he said.  
  
“I'd look better as Marcia.” She glanced back at Brooke, who was in a long blonde wig, orange turtleneck sweater, and plaid skirt. “Marcia had style. Cindy … _ugh._ I don't like dressing up as a geeky little kid.”  
  
“Hey, my damn hair is dyed brown, remember? And this crap ain't washing out.”  
  
Her lips pressed together, as if she were holding back a giggling fit. “I'm sorry. I was desperate. Besides, you should be proud being a brunet. You're getting married to the most gorgeous one on the planet, after all—and now we match!”  
  
“I liked my moss the way it was,” he said. “Nothin' says, 'I don't give a shit,' like the color of damp straw.”  
  
“Are you—” she let the giggles out this time, “are you trying to sound rebellious? Because that was a sad attempt, Steven. Really, really sad.”  
  
“Yeah, I know.” He pulled her closer and kissed her temple. Strands of her wig got caught on his lip—an unpleasant, ticklish sensation—but he didn't spit them off. She'd kill him if he got saliva on her fake hair, so was careful when pulling away. “Hey, we're up.”  
  
They were finally at the registration table. A plump woman greeted their group. _Brady Bunch_ pins adorned her vest, and a metal file box sat in front of her. “Whose name did you preregister under?” she said.  
  
“Jacqueline Burkhart,” Jackie said.  
  
The registrar flipped through aqua-colored cards in the file box. “Burkhart, Burkhart—ah, here we go.” She plucked out a card.“How many in your group?”  
  
“Ten.” Jackie gestured to Fez. “He's just a guest.”  
  
“I see, I see.” Several stacks of paper also sat on the table, and the registrar counted out ten packets. She put the aqua card on top of them. “All of you need to read through these contracts and sign them.” She pointed to an area beyond the table. Rows of seats were lined up in front of a projector screen. “You can do so over there...” the registrar's gaze fixed on Hyde, “Johnny Bravo, right?”  
  
“That's right!” Kelso pushed his way to the front of the group. “And I'm Peter.”  
  
The registrar's attention remained on Hyde, and she grinned. “Far out! You look just like him.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks.” Hyde took the stack of contracts from Jackie's arms and carried them to the rows of seats. The last thing he needed was to be ogled by some _Brady Bunch_ fanatic. He sat down, and his eyes scanned the aqua registrant card. Written in as the entry for _Group Name_ was _The Burkhart Bunch._ Man, their friends were going to love that.  
  
Soon, everyone but Jackie was seated around him. She remained standing and gave out pens. Hyde passed out the contracts, and she said, “Fill out your own names and contact information, but under 'Group Name,' all of you have to write 'The Burkhart Bunch'.”  
  
Hyde smirked as one of those collective groans rose into the air. _Yup,_ they were loving the name, all right.  
  
“Not doing it,” Forman said. He and Donna were sitting in the row behind Hyde. “No way am I ever gonna be a Burkhart.”  
  
“You are for today,” Donna said. “Suck it up.”  
  
“No, he doesn't have to 'suck it up'.” Jackie glowered at both her and Forman. “You should feel blessed to be associated with my name. God is _blessing_ you, Eric. This is probably your one and only chance to feel like royalty.” She finally sat down. “Take it in while you can.”  
  
“Burkhart-Brady royalty,” Donna said thoughtfully. “That's … different.”  
  
“And Jackie's a royal pain in the—” Forman said, but Hyde twisted in his chair and rammed his fist into Forman's shoulder.  
  
“Be nice to your sister, man,” Hyde said.  
  
Forman rubbed his arm. “I hate my _real_ sister. Why would I treat my fake one any better?”  
  
“She's gonna be your real sister- _in-law_ soon enough,” Donna said, and Forman cried out a “No!” loud enough to make the contest registrar take notice.  
  
Forman buried his face in his hands. “Did you have to remind me?”  
  
“Eric,” Red was sitting two chairs away from him, “shut up and read the damn contract, or I'll shove my foot up where the 'Sunshine Day' don't shine.”  
  
Mrs. Forman frowned. “Red, that wasn't very Brady of you. You know, we should all take this experience to heart and be more loving toward each other.”  
  
“I'm not sure if you really want that, Kitty,” Bob said. “I heard rumors the Brady kids fooled around with each other in the doghouse.”  
  
“Told you we should get Betsy a dog,” Kelso said. He was sitting in the row in front of Hyde, between Brooke and Fez. “We could make her a little brother or sister in there.”  
  
“Okay,” Kitty said with false cheerfulness, “no more talking.”  
  
She punctuated her order with a laugh, and everyone fell silent … until Hyde came across a disturbing clause in the contract. “Jackie,” he ran his finger beneath the offending line, “what the hell is this?”  
  
“Oh, it's a standard clause.”  
  
“Signing away my likeness is a standard clause?”  
  
“Baby,” Jackie pressed her cheek into his shoulder, as if that would placate him, “they're paying us thirty-thousand dollars. If they want to use our Brady-ness in commercials and magazine ads, don't you think it's a fair trade?”  
  
“No! And you shouldn't either. What about royalties, man? If they're gonna be making dough off us, we should get a bigger cut than three grand each.”  
  
“I've taught you so well!” She rubbed her finger along his sideburn, and he flinched. “Oh, come on. We're going up against eleven other _Brady Bunches._ It's not like we have _that_ big a chance of winning.”  
  
“Was that an attempt at nonchalance? 'Cause it was crap.”  
  
“Fine.” She plumped out her bottom lip in a pout then drew it back in. “But think of it this way: if anyone should be upset by that clause, it's me. I should have a lawyer rip this contract apart, but I'm signing it as it because I care about more than money.”  
  
She held his gaze a moment, and all doubts of her sincerity vanished. What she really wanted was this experience with him. And as ridiculous as all this Brady stuff was, he wanted the experience with her, too. So he quit griping, finished reading through the contract, and signed his name.

* * *

The contest had begun, and The Burkhart Bunch was seventh on the list. The order had been determined by the songs, but all Jackie could hear of the sixth group's performance was muffled music. Her own group had been brought through the hotel's kitchens. They were standing in a cramped hallway between them and the back of the convention center's stage.  
  
She found the situation exasperating. The normal path backstage was apparently under construction, but her thoughts about it were limited. She was listening intently to the other Bradys' performance. It came through the stage's door and sounded like they were singing “Keep On”. Applause soon took over, and her pulse tightened.  
  
“Is everyone ready?” she said to her group.  
  
“You better be,” the contestant organizer said. He was a skinny, twitchy, mustached man who resembled an Eric-Fenton hybrid. “You're about to go on.”  
  
He opened the stage door, and the M.C.'s voice rang out clearly, “And now give a hand for The Burkhart Bunch!”  
  
The contestant organizer gestured through the door and whispered, “Go, go!” Mrs. Forman and Mr. Pinciotti went out first, but the applause grew louder when Steven and Brooke ran onto the stage. The audience must have been impressed by Steven. He really did look like Greg Brady, and Jackie was proud of him—mostly for his willingness to be silly—and proud of herself for daring to dye his hair.  
  
Michael and Donna went out next. Then Jackie grabbed Eric's hand, and they skipped onto the stage together. Having to hold his sweaty palm repulsed her, but she refused to wipe her hand on her overalls. She had to stay professional. Sherwood Schwartz, _The Brady Bunch's_ creator, was the head judge. If he liked what he saw, maybe he'd create a show just for her: _Jackie's Island_ or _My Favorite Burkhart._  
  
Mr. Forman and Joanne were last on stage, and as the M.C. introduced them, Jackie glanced over at Steven. His demeanor was naturally calm—without the aid of alcohol or a circle. His ability to relax under almost any circumstance was inspiring. She wished she had it. Her heart was beating painfully in her chest, tap-dancing on her ribs. Not only was she about to perform in front of a thousand _Brady Bunch_ fans, but Bruce's camera was taping this moment for all of Wisconsin.  
  
A voiceless track of “Time to Change” burst through the stage's speakers. The music cut through her nerves, and she sang, _“Sha-na-na-na-na-na-na-na...”_ with her Burkhart Bunch. Then Steven took the first true verse, and the singing went relatively smoothly from there.  
  
The majority of their dance choreography came during the s _ha-na-nas._ She and Steven had the best rhythm out of everyone, and they moved through the routine easily. The others, though, had some trouble. Fortunately, Fez was standing at the front of the audience, and he performed what he could without drawing undue attention. The others seemed to see him, and it helped.  
  
The best part of their performance by far—other than Jackie's natural grace and Steven's foxy Johnny Bravo—had to be Michael's Peter Brady. Each time his voice cracked, the audience broke into laughter. Jackie spared a look at the judge's table. Sherwood Schwartz, his son Lloyd, and Mrs. Brady herself, Florence Henderson, all had huge grins on their faces.  
  
The Burkhart Bunch was a shoe-in to win, especially considering how loud the audience clapped and hooted after the performance. A pair of contestant organizers helped Jackie and her group off the stage, and they joined Fez in their designated section of seats.  
  
“You were amazing,” Fez said to them. “That two-thousand dollars is as good as mine!”  
  
Jackie leaned her head on Steven's shoulder. They were both catching their breath, and sweat soaked the fabric of his orange dashiki shirt. “I'm never singing again,” he said hoarsely.  
  
“Yes, you are,” she said. “Didn't you read the contract? If we win, we'll be touring America and singing the entire _Brady Bunch_ catalog.”  
  
“Nice try.”  
  
His hand slid over her knee, and she shut her eyes but not for long. She had to watch the rest of their competition. Most of the other performances were bland and off-key, but two groups added a thirty-second skit before their song. The audience and judges seemed to love that, and it shredded Jackie's confidence. If the Burkhart Bunch didn't win, it could sour this whole experience. Steven's memory of the last few days with her could be ruined.  
  
The judges deliberated over the contestants after the final performance. Jackie watched Sherwood Schwartz, his son, and Florence Henderson talk among themselves and point at various aqua cards on their table. Eventually, Sherwood gathered up three cards and called the M.C. over.  
  
This was the moment. Thirty-thousand dollars would either fall into Jackie's worthy hands and motivate Steven to stay sober, or it would slip through her fingers and push Steven farther away.  
  
The M.C. returned to center stage with the aqua cards. “Grasshopper,” Steven whispered and patted the top of his thighs. He wanted Jackie to sit on his lap.  
  
“It's too dangerous,” she whispered back. “If we lose, I might get violent.”  
  
He gestured to himself. “I'm willing to take that risk.”  
  
She eased off her chair and onto his lap, and his arms closed around her waist. His embrace was secure enough to support her but loose enough not to make her feel trapped. That was how he generally made her feel, both safe and free.  
  
The M.C. announced the third-prize winner. It wasn't The Burkhart Bunch, but the audience clapped anyway. The Keller family went up on stage and accepted its $2,500 check. The Kellers had performed “Sunshine Day” with a host of props, which had probably cost them half their monetary prize. But their singing had also been pristine, and they must've won third place because of that.  
  
The second-prize winner was The Shady Brady Bunch. A weird choice as far as Jackie was concerned. It was a group whose members each impersonated one of the Brady kids, but each kid was also dressed as Johnny Bravo. Their performance had clearly been a parody, but apparently the judges liked it enough to award them $5,000.  
  
A few seats down, Michael and Bob applauded for the Shady Bradys loudly. They must have thought not winning third or second place meant they were going to get first place. Jackie, though, turned in Steven's lap and whispered, “We're not gonna win.”  
  
“Don't really care,” he said back. “I got what I wanted.”  
  
She froze, needing a moment to analyze what he meant. Then she relaxed back into his embrace. “Aww, am I your thirty-thousand dollars?”  
  
“No, you're my Camaro, Zeppelin, and French fries.”  
  
“Oh, Steven!” His answer was so much better than her question, and she flung her arms around his neck. Early in their relationship, he'd claim to love only three things: Camaros, Led Zeppelin, and French fries. But now she was those things to him, just as he'd become what money and jewelry used to be to her.  
  
She kissed him, and their mouths joined with an intimacy that blotted all else from her senses. Their relationship would be easier now. Their foundation had become so much stronger. Direct communication was always their biggest challenge, but they'd finally crossed that threshold.  
  
“How the hell can you two be Frenching?” Michael shouted from somewhere. “We lost!”  
  
Jackie reluctantly pulled away from Steven's lips. Fez and The Burkhart Bunch were standing in front of them, and no one looked happy. _The Brady Bunch's_ theme song was blasting through the convention center while the Gothelds stood on stage. The family was being congratulated by the judges, and a giant thirty-thousand-dollar check was the Gothelds' hands.  
  
“I can't believe those hammy dumbasses beat us!” Mr. Forman said.  
  
Mrs. Forman rubbed his back. “Oh, Red, we had a good time. Isn't that all that counts?”  
  
“No!” Mr. Forman scowled. “I came here for the money. Kitty, I could've put a down payment on another Corvette! Instead, I'm dressed up like a Goddamn butcher, holding a plastic meat cleaver.”  
  
“It was the choreography that did us in,” Bob said, pointing at Fez. “You made it too complicated.”  
  
“Oh, you shut your filthy Mike-Brady mouth!” Fez said. “My choreography was brilliant. None of you clumsy idiots followed it right!”  
  
“Hey!” Eric shouted. “I twirled like a champion! These skinny legs were made for sashaying! Donna, back me up here.”  
  
Donna shook her head, “I'm going to the bar,” and started up the audience aisle.  
  
“That's the best idea I've heard all week,” Mr. Forman said and followed her.  
  
A variety of agreements came from the rest of them, and they left, revealing Bruce the cameraman and Max the boom operator. “I got all that on tape,” Bruce said with a smile.  
  
“Cool,” Steven said. His hands were resting on top of Jackie's thighs, and though she would've delighted in having six grand to spend, she didn't feel like a loser.  
  
“Do you want to do your post-contest interview now?” Bruce said.  
  
“Sure,” Jackie said, and Steven didn't object.  
  
“You didn't win,” Bruce said and directed his camera at them, “but how do you feel about this experience?”  
  
Steven glided his chin over Jackie's shoulder and said, “Cheesy as hell but worth it.”  
  
She giggled. “What the foxy Johnny Bravo said.”  
  
“Hey,” he bounced her on his lap, “no more of that _Johnny Bravo_ crap. The contest is over.”  
  
“You're still in the costume. Take it off, and I'll stop.”  
  
“Deal,” he said and stood up with her. Then he grasped her hand and spoke to Bruce and Max. “You guys might wanna go to the bar and film the rest of the losers. What we're about to do won't pass your show's censors.”  
  
Bruce and Max heeded his advice, continuing on their way once they were all outside the convention center's concourse  
  
“You're right, baby...” Jackie slid her palm up Steven's chest, “we're too hot for TV.”  
  
They were standing in the long, carpeted hallway. Very few Brady impersonators were wandering around. A special preview of _The Brady Girls Get Married_ was to be shown after the contest, and when she and Steven reached the hotel's lobby, they were entirely Brady free.  
  
She was relieved, but the smell of smoke stung her eyes, and the noise generated by the casino had captured Steven's attention. He was looking through the casino's stone archway.  
  
“Do you want to gamble?” she said and nervously readjusted the strap of her overalls.  
  
“Nope. I got the only addiction I want...” his gaze fell onto her, so full of love and joy that it threatened to make her cry, “and I'm lookin' at her. Let's get our asses up to our room, huh? And out of these getups. Then we can tell the story of a man named Hyde who did dirty things to his hot-as-hell fiancée.”  
  
“Oh, I love that story!” She wrapped her arms around his waist, and he eased one of his arms around her back. They walked to the hotel's bank of elevators like that, hugging each other. “It's more than a hunch that I'm wearing something unwholesome beneath my costume.”  
  
He laughed and pressed a kiss into her neck. “Yeah, I'm not goin' any further parodying that song. I've reached my Brady tolerance...” he gave her a gentle squeeze, “but I haven't reached my Jackie tolerance. Not by a long shot..”  
  
One of the elevators opened before she could respond to him. They went inside it together, but as the elevator doors closed, his happy gaze fell on her again. “Glad you dyed my hair.”  
  
A feeling as warm and bright as sunshine spread through her body. “The dye cost me four dollars, and my show won't reimburse it,” she said with an insincere pout, but another smile had been imprinted on her heart. It surfaced to her lips, and she kissed back into him the bliss his adoration and bravery had given her.  
  
A chime signaled that they'd come to their floor. The elevator doors opened, but Jackie and Steven didn't stop kissing. They made-out on the way to their suite, somehow managed to find their key and get inside, and were both naked by the time they got to the bedroom. “Best four dollars you ever spent,” Steven said in the brief space between their kisses.  
  
“I know how to make the most out of an investment.”  
  
He paused longer then. They were lying on the bed, tangled up in each other's bodies, but his eyes held an intensity that had roots deep in his soul. She'd experienced that look from him only a few precious times in her life, and her breaths became shallow while she waited for him to speak.  
  
“Thanks for investin' in me ... even when it seemed like a bad deal.”  
  
“I don't make bad deals,” she said and cupped his cheek. “We're good, Puddin'.” Their relationship had come to a which-way sign, with all arrows but one pointing to a dead-end. But their love for each other was a compass. It had led them down the right road—and should another which-way sign appear, their love would lead the way. “We're not our parents. We're _us._ ”  
  
“We're us,” he repeated, and his whole being seemed to lighten. His hand was curled around her hip, and his fingers drummed a gentle beat on her skin. “And this boy's a man inside.”  
  
“Don't do that, Steven,” she said, but she was giggling. He was quoting their _Brady Bunch_ song.  
  
“A girl's a woman, too,” he half-sang. “When it's time to change—”  
  
“Steven, stop!” She was squealing with laughter. Hiccups would follow if more of that song came out of him.  
  
But he did as she asked, silencing himself with her mouth. And as her giddiness was coaxed back into passion by his lips and tongue, she knew she wouldn't likely taste alcohol on them again. She was all he desired, and she planned on giving him endless supply.


End file.
